


At the Edge of the World

by Teese



Series: The Depths of Darkness [3]
Category: Burzum (Band), Mayhem (Band)
Genre: Abduction, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Physical Abuse, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8999581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teese/pseuds/Teese
Summary: Pelle's fate is uncertain. How will Varg and Mayhem respond to the violent behavior of Øystein's adherents?





	1. Scatter the Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Yule to you all :) let us celebrate by diving into the Depths of Darkness yet again...

Jan had extinguished the fire in a matter of minutes. When the police arrived at the scene, perhaps five minutes after the incident had taken place; they were quick to chase away the many curious onlookers. Most of them were worried neighbours, and all of them had a thousand questions to ask. Members of the fire department had turned up briefly after. They had received a frantic call from an elderly woman – one of the neighbours. In the end of the evening, an ambulance had made its way to the house, bringing security blankets and an abundance of medical inquiries.

Varg could only stare at the cross – it had been lowered onto the ground by then. He stared at the burnt-out carcass, his lips slightly parted. His mind wanted him to stay rational and calm, and he was silently commanding his legs to walk over to the charred remains, but his efforts were to no avail. His trembling limbs were in no condition to cooperate with his brain, and he tried to sit down, but it was more like a stumble and fall that left him in a trembling heap on the frozen ground. 

 “Are you alright?” a woman, presumably one of the paramedics, asked. Varg stared at her for some time, regarding her with confusion in his eyes. He didn’t understand.

“Some help over here!” she yelled, waving her hand at someone in the distance. Another paramedic came to Varg’s rescue and lifted him off the ground and back to his feet. They weren’t nearly steady enough to carry his weight, and the woman put her arm behind his back, gently guiding him towards the flight of steps. Once seated, the woman tossed a blue blanket over his shoulders and asked him to stay put. He was in no condition to argue.

“Is he alright?” Varg heard Jørn ask from somewhere in the distance, though his eyes couldn’t locate him.

“He will be once the shock wears off,” the woman replied.  

The bassist was suddenly next to him on the step, stroking his back in a soothing manner. “Hey,” he said and attempted to make eye contact with the younger man. The teenager lowered his gaze, knowing he’d been shedding tears. His eyes were embarrassingly red and swollen.  

“The body… it’s not Pelle,” Jørn promised him. “It’s a dummy… no one was injured.”

Varg looked up from the icy ground, allowing for a brief moment of eye contact.

“… I-I want to… need to see him,” he whimpered, his sentences broken and marked by the grief and pain he was experiencing. “Where… where is he? Say that- that he has to… has to be here.”

“Varg,” the bassist said, his voice sounding strained and somewhat bleak. “We… we don’t know where he is. The police are searching, but… we don’t know. He’s officially missing.”

The information made the teenager go silent again, his mind blocking out everything else – everything foreign and frightening. He buried his face in Jørn’s shoulder, allowing for silent tears of rage and misery to fall freely. The bassist, who was equally forlorn, wrapped Varg into his arms and cradled him as if he were nothing but a child. Their despair cut them to the bone, because even if it had been a dummy on that cross, they both knew that Pelle was now at the mercy of The Inner Circle, a fact that left little to the imagination. Øystein had wanted him dead, and his adherents would of course follow his bidding.

 

* * *

 

Varg regarded the telephone with contemplative eyes, eyes that held so much pain in them. The bassist sat next to him on the sofa, his eyes glued to the television rather than the telephone, but he fooled no one. The house and the living room were endowed with an air of unreality - a sense of helplessness and anxiety that permeated their every action. Both of them waited for that one important phone call, though they weren’t sure if they were supposed to look forwards to it or dread it.

“What time is it?” Jørn asked, interrupting Varg in his thoughts.

“… It’s almost six o’clock.”

“Already?” the bassist said, creasing his forehead in a somewhat weary manner. “Then they’ll be here any minute.” The comment caused the teenager to sigh. “I know…” he whispered and wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forth in a nervous display of emotions. “Have you met them before?”

Jørn nodded, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Pelle’s dad visited every now and then. And, well, he came to retrieve him in January, remember? He brought Anders at one occasion a few years back, but he didn’t approve much… he wanted Pelle in Sweden, which I get.”

Varg felt something akin to guilt washing over him upon hearing these words. He remembered that Pelle had wanted to talk to him about that art school in Sweden, but Varg had disapproved at that point, afraid to leave Bergen behind. Pelle had brushed it off, stating that his father had in fact applied in his name, but Varg wasn’t so sure anymore. This and the secret songs he had written led him to a different conclusion.

“… I hope they won’t hate me,” he thought aloud.

“Varg… I don’t think anyone has ever classified Pelle as being normal, including Lisa and Mikael. Being in love is probably the most human thing he’s done in his life. Your gender is just irrelevant here… they’ll approve.”

The eighteen-year-old couldn’t hold back his smile at that point, and even if it was a sad smile, it meant something other than pure agony. It was just in that moment they heard a car in the driveway.

“Are you ready?” Jørn asked, getting up from the sofa. He had never before seen the teenager to nervous.

“No,” he replied and then inhaled deeply. “But they are here regardless of me being ready or not.”

 

* * *

 

The rather small living room was jam-packed with people. Jørn was making light conversation with their three guests, chatting away about the weather and whatnot. But as soon as coffee and sandwiches had been brought to the table, the small talk died out. Nobody said anything for a while, creating an uneasy and tense silence. At that moment, Lisa Ohlin burst into tears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping her wet cheeks with a napkin. Anders, not bearing to see his mother in such a dishevelled state, took her hand and attempted to soothe her. His effort was heartfelt, but as anyone could have guessed, she was completely and utterly broken.

“We will find him,” Mikael attempted to reassure her, sending both his son and his ex-wife a look of determination. In spite of this, he too looked on the verge of tears.

“But he could be anywhere by now…” she sniffled. The look on her face was that of pure agony.

Varg had remained wordless for most of the conversation. He had of course introduced himself by name, but it had been a hurried affair. In brevity, he hadn’t been able to inform them about the nature of his relationship to their son, and as far as he could tell, they had no knowledge on the matter.

“His abductors,” Varg chimed in, stealing their attention. “They are teenagers… some of them are younger than I am. At some point, they will make mistakes – stupid mistakes, and the police will get on their trail.”

Jørn nodded his head in agreement. “Varg is right. But… we must all understand that something bad can happen before they mess up. He might get injured or…” he faltered.

“We have to be prepared,” Mikael finished for him. Even if his voice was calm and steady, his features were still clouded by fear and sorrow.

After an hour or two, the sandwiches were all gone. The teenager had volunteered to do the dishes, feeling somewhat disheartened after the long and tiring conversation. Having domestic chores wasn’t something he felt reluctant about, especially when times were rough. He found labour to be the best solution to most issues, because even if it couldn’t make things right, it could open his mind to more rational thoughts and ideas.

“… You,” he heard someone say from the doorway, causing him to jump. He hadn’t heard anyone enter the room, having been absorbed in deep thoughts.  

“Anders, you frightened-“

“This is your fault,” the younger boy said accusingly. He wore an expression on his face that told Varg that he was far from being happy. “If it hadn’t been for you, he would’ve been in Sweden… he never would’ve gone to Bergen, and he never would’ve come back here – back to this godforsaken hellhole!”

A frown crossed Varg’s otherwise soft features. “I wasn’t the one to abduct your brother,” he replied, and the curtness of his words implied how guarded he felt. The boy’s aggression was obvious, perhaps righteously so, only aimed at the wrong person.

“Maybe not,” Anders sneered. “But you allowed for it to happen! You knew about those people and their intentions.”

The words were harsh. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t already entered his mind, but he had been able to brush them aside, realising that now wasn’t a good time to self-destruct. Now was the time to be strong and determined. He couldn’t allow for Pelle’s brother to get to him, particularly in that moment. The boy wasn’t speaking from his heart, only from the pain that troubled his mind.

“Okay…” Varg said after some time, putting the clean plates back into the cabinet. “Well, to be honest with you… I really did think that Pelle spoke to you and your parents about what happened. I mean, all Pelle ever does is write letters.”

The seventeen-year-old looked as if completely forlorn about the information. “I… I never received any.”

Varg took a seat at the kitchen table, signalling for the Swede to follow his example, which he did. He wasn’t glaring at the brunette anymore, his eyes glued to the white tablecloth instead. His fingers were absentmindedly plucking at the hem of his shirt, displaying his nervousness.

“I’m sorry that this had to happen,” Varg said after some time of complete silence. They were the only ones still awake, leaving the house in a state of rare quietude.

“We spoke not too many days ago… on the phone,” Anders began to explain. As he gazed up, their eyes locked for a brief and painful moment. Those pale blue eyes were eerily similar to Pelle’s. “He… he talked about you… told me…” The teenager lowered his gaze again, finding it difficult to voice his thoughts. “I… well, I never thought that he would ever fall in love, you know?”

A smile touched the brunette’s lips, though he did his best to conceal it, knowing it was inappropriate. “Did anyone ever give him the benefit of the doubt?”

“No,” the blonde responded, shaking his head. “But Pelle… he’s always been the black sheep… someone we constantly had to look after…” he paused himself midsentence, as if something else had come to mind. “I can appreciate your relationship, but I also can’t help but to think that we never should have let him leave Sweden in the first place.”

Varg heaved a sigh at the confession, hoping very dearly that Pelle would return to them soon enough. He had never imagined that his first encounter with his parents and brother would be something as gloomy as it had turned out to be.

“So, why didn’t you tell your parents about… about us?”

“It’s not up to me,” the younger boy replied, raising his shoulders in a half-shrug. “And it’s up to you whether you want to explain it to them or not.”

The blonde was about to head back upstairs when Varg asked what he had been dreadful to ask: “Anders… when you spoke that day… did he tell you he wanted to return to Västerhaninge?”

Their eyes locked again, the sight of Anders’ eyes equally unsettling to the brunette. The younger of the two Ohlin boys was perhaps more of a social creature than his brother, but if one ignored the essential differences between their personalities, they were uncannily similar to behold.

“So he didn’t tell you?” the boy sighed. His sad expression melted into compassion, as if he recognised his brother’s secretive behaviour and felt sympathy for the musician. “He… he’s always diffuse, you know, but… from what I gathered, he was a bit homesick, yes. He mentioned that he’d been exchanging letters with the guys in Morbid… that he’d written songs.”

Varg could only nod his head, his tongue unable to form sentences. He had been blind.

 

* * *

 

Pelle had been missing for nearly one week. In such serious cases of abduction, it would have been common procedure to have Pelle’s face on the news and in every newspaper, but because of the hostile music scene they were part of, they had decided to do the opposite. In the end, it could have led to something far worse than captivity. Perhaps, if they chose not to shower the perpetrators with media attention, they would become bored with Pelle and eventually release him or demand a ransom.

That morning had been quiet. Journalists weren’t nesting outside of Jørn’s house anymore, and the neighbours weren’t peeking at them through the blinds anymore either. In some ways, this fact saddened Varg, realising that everyone but them were moving past the incident. If Pelle turned up dead in a ditch, they wouldn’t as much as blink.

“Varg!” the bassist shouted from the hallway. “There’s a phone call for you!”

The eighteen-year-old assumed it was his mother, but when he stepped into the hallway and exchanged looks with Jørn, he realised it was more serious than what he had thought. For one moment, he feared the worst, mouthing the word ‘police’. The older man whispered: “no” in return, but he didn’t offer any further explanation, handing Varg the receiver.

“… Hello?” Varg said. There was a slight frown attached to his face. “Who am I speaking to?”

“Varg?” a familiar voice said, though not one he could place. “It’s Petter… Øystein’s father. There’s something I need to tell you… the police will probably inform you about this quite soon, but I felt that, well, I should be the one to let you know.”

One could hear that something weighed heavily upon the man’s shoulders. His words came out too fast and in an almost practiced manner. Varg could see that Jørn was still standing in the doorway, watching him with worried eyes. The brunette knew what he was thinking, and he was thinking it too.

“This… this whole thing has been hard on us. Our son…” he faltered for a moment there. The silence was awkward and full of apprehension. “Øystein escaped from the hospital,” he whispered, nearly choking on his words. “H-he left a… a note. It said ‘revenge’.”

“Holy shit…” Varg whispered. His right hand clenched into a fist, wishing more than anything to have Øystein before him. “Holy…” he repeated, putting down the receiver without saying goodbye.

“Varg?” Jørn said, an alarmed expression on his face. “What did he say?”

The teenager felt tears of rage burning in his eyes. As he gazed up, their eyes meeting once again, he growled: “He fled… that motherfucking psycho is on the run!”

Jørn’s expression hardened at the information. “We’ve got to find Pelle.”


	2. At the Mercy of the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there :) I'm so so sorry, this has taken me forever to update... things have happened in my life... my grandfather became very ill and then I myself fell ill (with something unrelated). These somber events forced me to quit school and go back home, on the other side of the country... but things are getting better, so I'm writing again :) 
> 
> I have written something for part four, the last part of the series, but I will draw a line at part three for the time being. I am currently focusing on my paintings for the most part, and I am also really focusing on an unrelated fic that will be posted within the next couple of weeks, if not days. (It is a Marilyn Manson fic... my most ambitious work so far.)
> 
> Anyway, comments are appreciated :) I would love to hear your thoughts on these two chapters and whether a new story following Pelle and Varg would be appreciated or not :D let me know! 
> 
> You may follow me on Tumblr, where I will be posting updates I do on the archive :)
> 
> http://dystopian-virus.tumblr.com

The case took a turn for the worse. A worn-out white shoe had been found in a ditch on one of the main roads that led to Oslo. The police had asked Varg to confirm whether it belonged to Pelle or not, and it did. He had in fact never seen the Swede without those horrendous yellowing white shoes. About half a day after this shocking discovery, they had found his wallet.

“It might be a good thing,” Jan said. He tried to be encouraging, but the two teenagers on the sofa weren’t at all convinced.

“They may have planted the items there,” Varg said, the pensive look on his face only deepening. “To befuddle us.”

“Or Pelle managed to leave a trail behind,” the drummer argued, but it sounded weak to his own ears.

“So he just casually rolled down the window and tossed out his shoe?” Anders asked, rolling his eyes. “Nope.”

Jørn, who was seated in the armchair, his eyes focused on the television rather than the erratic conversation, suddenly frowned deeply. He turned to look at the other three men. “I just realised something,” he whispered, his eyes wide open. The other three looked at him with quizzical eyes, none of them having thought that the bassist was paying attention.

“What?” Anders asked when the silence went on too long. “Something relevant?”

“The record shop,” he said and rose from his seat, walking towards the door that led to the basement. “If this is all part of Øystein’s plan, then they have to be there,” he whispered and nearly ran down the stairs, fishing the key to the gun cabinet out of his pocket. “They’ve got no other place.”

Varg, who had followed the bassist down into the basement, couldn’t help but to protest. “That is nonsense… the police must have been there, haven’t they?” 

Jørn stood still for a moment, one of the rifles in his right hand. “No… it isn’t in his name anymore,” he said and then tossed the rifle into Varg’s hands. “But I drove by last time I went to Oslo… a few weeks ago. The place was crawling with posers,” he explained. “I don’t have any evidence, of course, but I’m not going to ignore it. If he’s down there, he might now have much time… we don’t have much time.”

 

* * *

 

Jørn and Varg had made contact with the police. They were nearly as eager to locate the missing Swede as they were, but their hands were tied by certain protocols. In order to obtain a search warrant, the officer would have to prove to a judge that there was reason to suspect illegal activities within the building. It wouldn’t be an issue, but it could take time, and time wasn’t a benefit of theirs. Should the warrant be delayed by another hour, Pelle could wind up dead.

The two men made the crucial decision to drive to the location. They chose to withhold this information from the Ohlin family, apart from Anders, but they had absolutely refused to bring him along. In spite of his insistent pleas to accompany them, they couldn’t risk the lives of both brothers.

When they came to the right street, quite close to the railway station, they parked the old station wagon in an alley a couple of blocks away from the shop.

“Let’s go,” Jørn said, but as he was about to open the car door, Varg put his hand on his arm, shaking his head in a dismissive manner.

“You have Luna,” he reasoned. “Pelle… he’s counting on me. I don’t want to jeopardise your life, I never could have forgiven myself if…” he went quiet for a moment, his eyes focused on the darkened street before them. He was nearly trembling with anticipation. The thought of seeing Pelle again – touching him and holding him – it made the ice in him melt. If he needed to fend for that, and even if it would claim his life, he would without any hesitation.

“Just stay here and be ready,” he told the older man, taking the rife into his hands. “Be careful, Varg. If it takes you too long, I will come after you,” Jørn said in response. While he wasn’t crazy about the idea, he realised that it was a very natural progress. Had it been his girlfriend, he would’ve done the same. He would’ve been a fucking grizzly bear on the loose.

The brunette gave him a long look. “Fine.”

Varg abandoned the car and made his way through the darkness of the alley and towards the main street. Given that this was in the middle of Oslo, the outdoor lighting made him far more visible than he would’ve liked, feeling vulnerable under the strong street lights. Even so, he walked quite casually towards Helvete – towards Schweigaards street 56. The door with its various posters was impossible to miss.

“Shit,” he whispered to himself as he could see a car driving towards him at a slow speed. The teenager was quick to hide behind the dumpster that stood close to the door. The second he was out of sight, the car came to a halt. From where he was seated, he couldn’t see who exited the vehicle, but he did hear the sound of two car doors being closed.

“Finally, sweet freedom,” someone said, heaving a sigh of relief. “I hope you haven’t moved around any of my things… it would upset me.”

The voice sent chills down Varg’s spine. It was undoubtedly Øystein.

“Of course I haven’t,” a female voice replied in a singsong voice. “I never would have insulted you so cruelly, my lord.”

The pair of them entered the shop then. For the brief moment the door was held open, the sound of raw and loud music emitted from the dark depths of the hellhole. While this was normal for such people, the eighteen-year-old was fairly certain he had heard something else – something that unsettled him to the core of his being. The sound drained all colour from his face and made his mouth go dry. He couldn’t wait another minute, not even another second, and before his brain was able to catch up with his feet, his hand was on the handle.

 

* * *

 

Varg got the door slightly ajar, just cracked enough to peek through. To his great surprise, no one was in the first floor of the store, but the stereo was still on. The sheer volume of the music was ear-shattering – remarkably loud. This had the teenager frowning. His hand clutched the gun, his face pale and lips set in a firm line. There was no other way to get into the basement than down the winding staircase. From what Jørn had told him, the basement consisted of several large rooms and, should Varg be lucky, they wouldn’t be able to spot him at once.

His feet hardly touched the steps as he carefully crept down the staircase. Once halfway down, he peeked through the metal bar railing. The room had several large shelves that blocked his view, though he couldn’t hear or see anyone from where he stood.

“Over there!” someone shouted through the music, causing the brunette to jump. The owner of the voice soon came into view from behind one of the shelves. At first, he didn’t take notice of Varg. He was too busy looking for something in one of the shelves. As the man stood on his toes, arm reaching for something, Varg saw his opportunity.

He moved swiftly and soundlessly – approaching the guy without giving his presence away. As the guy turned around, an LP in his hand, he yelped. The mouth of Varg’s rifle was only inches away from his face.

“Put these on,” Varg mouthed, handing him a pair of handcuffs. The man, who had long black hair and a beard, took the handcuffs without hesitating. Once they were on, Varg put one of his gloves into his captive’s mouth, not wanting him to draw to much attention to himself. 

“Move,” Varg ordered, pushing the man forwards, threatening him with his rifle. “I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in you,” he hissed when the man began groaning loudly through the mouth gag.

When they reached the doorway, they were greeted by a bloodcurdling scream. It pierced through the air like nothing he had ever heard before, making him shudder. At first, he had been too focused on the task, and he hadn’t recognised the voice. When a second scream was released, the person’s voice breaking at the end, realisation dawned on him.

“… Pelle,” he breathed.  A wave of nausea passed over him, and he closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

Varg urged the man to move forwards, all sense of logic and reason abandoning his mind. A third scream sent a lonely tear down his cheek, one he couldn’t be bothered to dry away.

“Øystein!” he shouted, his voice full of determination and anger. They were standing in the last room of the basement – a grey concrete bunker. It was overfilled with people, all of them clad in black. There were satanic symbols everywhere, a huge pentagram adorning the floor and the words “black metal” on the wall. And on the same wall, Pelle was hanging from his arms off the wall, his face against the concrete and his back exposed. What he found to be truly sickening about this were the angry, red wounds on Pelle’s skin, the results of the flogging he had received.

“Varg…” Øystein said. He didn’t even pretend to be surprised, but gave him a self-satisfied smirk that had the teenager growling. “At last!” he said and held out the whip he had used to torture Pelle. The blonde was whimpering at the realisation that Varg was in the room with him, his head turned sideways as he attempted to make eye contact.

“If you don’t let him down right this fucking moment, I will blow his brains out,” Varg threatened, pressing the barrel of the rifle against the temple of his hostage. Øystein stared at the man, perhaps a few years younger than himself, and he waved his hand dismissively. “Do as you please, Varg,” he said and smiled. “He is of no value to me anymore.”

Varg’s jaw clenched. He looked at Pelle through the corner of his eye, feeling both relief and fury.

“This is your last chance, Kristian,” Øystein continued. He approached Varg with confidence in his movements, the twisted smile still attached to his lips. “Join me… you and I… we will be strong together. We will conquer the world together!”

Varg glared at the madman with absolute disgust in his eyes. “I have no interest in being with someone as mentally insane as you,” he said, his voice firm and unwavering. “You have tortured him enough now, don’t you think? Let me take him home. I’ll leave you and your little coven alone-“

The black-haired man elbowed Varg in the ribcage with all his might, causing Varg to stumble to the ground, losing the rifle in the process.

“Varg!” Pelle shouted from where he was hanging.

“Grab him!” Øystein shouted to some of his adherents, giving Pelle a feigned smile of affection. The adherents were quick to obey his order, and soon Varg was tied to a chair in the centre of the room. Øystein stood behind him, his hands on the brunette’s shoulders, squeezing them.

“Believe it or not, my precious, I have your best interest in mind,” he whispered into his ear, causing the teenager to growl in protest once more. “As if,” he said, his eyes glued to Pelle and the angry marks on his back. He wanted to say he was sorry, that he had failed in his mission to protect him, but he couldn’t allow for any of the cult members to see him vulnerable.

Øystein forcefully pressed his right hand against Varg’s throat, tilting his head in his direction rather than Pelle’s. “Always so fond of that bloody Swede,” he muttered, moving his hand to Varg’s chin. Even in his grip, Varg refused to make eye contact. This further agitated the guitarist, and he pressed his index finger against Varg’s closed lips. “Very well… if you want to be difficult, then I will fight fire with fire…”

Pelle cried out in protest from the other side of the room. “Leave him be,” he begged. “Finish me off instead!”

“I would never grant you the satisfaction,” Øystein snarled in response, walking over to where the half-naked Swede was hanging by his wrists. Without another word said, he pressed the same index finger against one of the wounds, causing the Swede to scream.

“Leave us, my dark ones,” the shorter man told his adherents. Without any protest, all of them abandoned the room, closing the door behind them.


	3. When We Dissolve

Øystein had removed the heavy leather coat from his slender frame, now only attired in a black tank top and black trousers. He was sweating with anticipation and animalistic titillation, his black hair clinging to his face and neck. His hands were bloodied from having fingered the deep cuts and gashes on Pelle’s back, having taken immense pleasure from the torture. The frontman now hung limp from the wall, his breathing shallow and his skin white as snow. Blood was trickling down his jeans and down to a puddle on the floor. The sight pained Varg beyond words, his heart racing with fear and horror.

“You would be wise to beg for mercy,” Øystein said, crouching down in front of the chair. The younger musician still refused to look him in the eyes, his pupils focusing solely on the grey wall and the graffiti. One couldn’t argue with those mentally insane.

The cult leader heaved a sigh of frustration. His eyes were burning with want, and in spite of the lack of contact between them, he threaded his hand through Varg’s brown hair, soiling it with Pelle’s blood. When the eighteen-year-old shied away from the touch, his grip tightened, forcing the brunette to stay still. “You _will_ obey me,” he hissed. “Or else… your beloved Swede will suffer even more… I will do to him what I will to you.”

Those shrewd words caught Varg’s attention. He reluctantly tore his gaze away from the concrete wall and allowed for their eyes to meet, signalling that he was listening.

“You are such an exquisite specimen,” he breathed and pressed his chapped lips against Varg’s motionless expression, his eyes staring into the open space. In his mind, every instinct told him to flee, to get away from his attacker, but flight was impossible. At the very least, he had diverted Øystein’s attention away from Pelle.

When the kiss hadn’t been as satisfactory as Øystein would have liked, he withdrew from the younger man, narrowing his eyes in a thoughtful manner.

“You have to do better than that, love,” he said and started stroking his face. Varg bit the insides of his cheeks, realising that he had to fully surrender, thus humiliating himself to the greatest extent. Before he could respond to the statement, he felt something sharp being pressed against his neck.

“Open your mouth, beautiful,” Øystein whispered, his voice filled with a sickening sweetness. “Let me inside.”

Varg’s teeth dug into the soft flesh of his cheeks hard enough to draw blood. Closing his eyes, squeezing them shut, he parted his lips, though only slightly. It was the golden ticket Øystein had been waiting for.

“Good boy,” he breathed, inserting a finger into Varg’s mouth, causing the brunette to nearly choke at the unexpected intrusion. The taste of Pelle’s blood mixed with his own was nauseating to the point where he had to fight his stomach not to puke his guts out. “Show me… show me what you’d like to do to Pelle,” he hissed, his voice thick with both jealousy and arousal. The request brought tears to Varg’s eyes.

“If you don’t obey,” he whispered, his lips inches away from Varg’s ear. “I will have my way with him… and when his virgin ass has been claimed, I will do the same to you… using his blood as lubrication.”

Varg swirled his tongue around the tip of Øystein’s finger, causing the dark-haired man to moan his pleasure. The teenager felt something within his heart being shattered that very moment, his mind abandoning his body and the gruesome situation. Instead of being tied to a chair, Øystein’s finger thrusting in and out of his mouth, he was in the house in Bergen, his head cradled in Pelle’s lap in front of the fireplace. As his thoughts wandered elsewhere, he allowed for the guitarist to do as he pleased with him – to defile him and ruin him. 

  

* * *

 

Jørn glanced down at his wristwatch for the umpteenth time that evening. Thirty minutes had gone by since Varg had so recklessly abandoned the car, stating that this was on his shoulders. He realised that something must have gone awry. Varg’s plan had been to go in, threaten them with his rifle, and then they would give Pelle to him willingly. If the police didn’t show up soon, things would become ugly.

Without any concerns for his own safety, Jørn took his handgun with him and headed for the door, entering the dark dungeons of what could only be described as hell on Earth.

Once inside the shop, he was met by the sight of a couple of teenagers at the counter, most likely chatting away about satanic rites and whatnot. The music was deafening to the point where they hadn’t heard the door, but once they saw him, they could simply stare in wide-eyed horror at the gun he presented to them.

“Where the fuck is Øystein?” he demanded. His eyes were burning with rage and determination, which was enough to scare the living shit out of anyone.  All three teenagers pointed to the staircase, not daring to open their mouths.

“And turn that shitty music down,” he said as he walked over to where they were seated. The youngest of the two girls was quick to do as she had been told, terrified of the weapon and the man carrying it. When the music ceased and there was complete silence in the room, Jørn could clearly hear noises from the basement. He cursed inwardly, knowing that the basement was crawling with Øystein’s brainwashed flock of sheep. 

“The police will be here any moment. I suggest you three brats get the fuck out of here,” he growled, resulting in all three of them running for the door. Before he had time to think twice about his next move, he could hear a pained scream pierce through the air like a bullet.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered to himself, eyes wide as dinner plates. Without any concern for anything but the two boys, the bassist bolted down the flight of stairs, the familiar rush of adrenaline now running through his body.

 

* * *

 

Varg was completely naked. The guitarist had used his knife to remove his clothes, not daring to loosen the ropes that restrained him. Being fully exposed to Øystein’s eyes rendered him in a state of shock and shame that he couldn’t recall to have ever felt before. He wondered briefly whether the police were on their way or not, though it hardly mattered at that point. No matter what followed, he had still been abused and Pelle was beaten half to death. Both of them had been completely and utterly humiliated.

“You’re so good…” Øystein breathed. He was getting rid of his pants now, pulling them down together with his underpants.  His raven locks were plastered to his head in sweat, his body trembling with ecstasy. He had dreamt of this scenario for a long time.

Varg felt a growing uneasiness as he took in the sight before him. Øystein was now completely naked apart from the slightly undersized tank top. It stuck to him like a second skin.

“We don’t have to rush into things today…” Øystein said and caressed Varg’s cheek with his thumb, as if he genuinely cared for him. The manipulative act was old news and did nothing but disgust the teenager. “I just want to… to get some release,” he said. His lips twitched almost nervously at what he had uttered. “It’s not too bad, is it?”

Varg squeezed his eyes shut again; not wanting to know what would come next.

“I’ve never said this to anyone before… but I love you,” Øystein whispered and pressed his lips against Varg’s temple. “And I know you love me too…” His hand was suddenly on Varg’s wrist, stroking it, causing him to grit his jaw. Before he knew it, he could feel something warm and sticky against his hand. Øystein clasped Varg’s hand forcefully around his hard member, urging him to touch him.

Varg heard Pelle cry out a slurred “no”. He had regained consciousness and stared at the awful scene with tears running down his bruised face. Øystein was visibly annoyed by this interruption, and Varg, fearing for Pelle’s life at this point, wrapped his hand around Øystein’s shaft and stroked him.

“Ah!” the black-haired man moaned. His attention was solely on Varg again, his right hand buried in the brunette’s hair. “So good,” he whispered and then let out his breath in a long, uneven hiss.

In just that moment, the door to the bunker swung open and slammed into the wall with full force, causing Øystein to withdraw from the touch like a skittish animal.

“What the hell is going on here?” Jørn said, his eyes wide open as he took in the incomprehensible sight of his former best friend – his childhood friend, molesting the eighteen-year-old. On the wall, Pelle was hanging by his arms, blood everywhere.

Øystein started covering himself up. Varg, still bound to the chair, began trembling with raw emotions. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel anything but survival until that point, leaving him on the verge of an emotional breakdown. Jørn stared at the shorter man for what felt like minutes. When Øystein attempted to move away, Jørn raised his gun, aiming between the eyebrows.

“Jørn-“

“How the fuck is this even possible… Øystein!” he said, his voice quavering. “I’ve known you for ten years… ten years! And now I-I have to walk in on… on this.”

Øystein stared at Jørn for a long time, his face a blank expression that showed no remorse whatsoever, only a selfishness that had overtaken his mind and personality. This man wore the face of the Øystein he had once known, but he was nothing but a sick stranger. Never before in his life had Jørn wanted to end someone’s life as badly as he wanted to in that moment, and little held him back.

The guitarist simply smiled at the words that had fallen from Jørn’s lips. “I am pure evil,” he said and inched closer to the doorway where Jørn was standing.

“Back off!” the larger man warned him, but the alarm in his voice was too obvious. In the end, Øystein stood with the muzzle of the gun pressed against his forehead, urging Jørn to pull the trigger.

In just that moment, there was the sound of someone screaming from upstairs. While Jørn had managed to scare away most of the creeps by stating that the police were on their way, a few must have returned. And indeed, the police had arrived. They were making their way down into the basement that very moment. It caused Jørn to lower the gun, stepping aside.

“Leave, if you wish,” he said and glared at the shorter man with hatred in his eyes. Øystein knew what Jørn knew – there was no escape. He was trapped.

Three officers entered the room at once. “Drop your weapon!” they yelled at the bassist, who immediately did as told. Øystein reached for Varg’s rifle on the floor while the female police officer was busy collecting the handgun.

“Drop the gun!” one of the two men ordered, both of them aiming their guns at the guitarist.

“Let me leave or I will shoot him!” he said, his voice calm and steady. He was waving the gun in Pelle’s direction. The police officers looked at one another, exchanging signals. In the end, they couldn’t risk the lives of civilians, and so they nodded, moving out of Øystein’s way. When he had abandoned the room and hurried upstairs, they could hear the sound of shots being fired.

“Shit,” one of the police officers whispered to himself as they heard numerous gunshots being fired. Such violent incidents weren’t daily fare to the Norwegian police. 

Pelle let out a sob of despair, his arms feeling as if they had caught fire. Upon realising the great pain he was suffering, the woman rushed to Pelle’s side, holding his weight to offer him some relief.

“Someone, hold him while I cut him down,” she ordered, panic lacing her words. Jørn and one of the men bolted to her side, taking a hold of the wounded vocalist. There was a small stepladder in the corner that had undoubtedly been used to hang him there in the first place. They pushed it over to the wall where Pelle was hanging. The female was quick to cut the ropes with her knife, allowing for Jørn and the male officer to carry him out of the room. While they had helped him, the third officer had cut Varg loose and covered his naked body with his uniform jacket.

 


End file.
